


And the Sea With Its Deepness

by DreamingPagan



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Also featuring creative new ways of ruining James Flint's life, Eventual Happy Ending, Everything is still broken but it gets better, F/M, Featuring Pirate!Miranda, M/M, Miranda Barlow Appreciation, Miranda Lives AU, Multi, Wherein the events of 1705 go a bit differently, canon has been - recognized and judiciously played with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9875774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: “It cannot be,” she murmurs again. “You died. They murdered you -”“Miranda,” he croaks again, and then suddenly there are arms enfolding him, squeezing, wrapped around him so tightly as to almost deny him breath.“You’re not dead,” Miranda nearly sobs. “My God - you’re not -” She pulls back, staring him full in the face.“You’re alive."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was not going to post any of this at all until two conditions had been met. 1. I was going to finish TtUA first. 2. I was going to actually write this one the whole way through before posting, but, well, I'm stalled on TtUA frankly and I'm hoping that focusing on something different will give me the impetus I need to finish it since it never fails that when I focus on one thing I get ideas for another. Also Cynthia is a terrible enabler and I blame her for my complete lack of self control in posting this, as well as my lovely case of anxiety over having a routine procedure done tomorrow.

He has been in the dark for too long.

It’s been hours, he thinks, or maybe days - he can’t be sure, but it’s been too long since he saw sunlight. That much he is sure of. He’s grown used to the sounds down here, now, but some part of him still longs for daylight - for any light at all. He misses it more than he would have credited - even Bedlam had not been so dark.

He’s almost glad when the battle begins. The sound of the guns firing and men screaming breaks the monotony of his cell, giving him something to focus on other than listening for the rats scuttling, and with the danger comes a pleasant thought - perhaps this lot will let him die. Or, he thinks with a twinge of ironic optimism, maybe he will be permitted to join them.

And perhaps, he thinks bitterly, the straw under him will turn to gold, too, while he’s wishing for impossible things.

He banishes the brief spark of hope roughly. If he has learned anything in the past ten years, it is that hope is deadly. It leads to crushed spirits and stupid risks, and if he is going to remain sane, he cannot afford it. He cannot -

He closes his eyes and raises his face toward the ceiling, forbidding himself the tears that want to well up and the lip wobble that accompanies them. God, is it truly so horrible of him to wish desperately for a real bath and a half-decent bed, even one that’s too short, as long as it has a mattress? Is that so much to ask?

A light flashes beneath the door, and he stares at it eagerly. Light means the potential for food and drink, both commodities he is currently without. He can feel his stomach growl, and he swallows hard against the nausea that accompanies the hunger. There are no guarantees, he knows, but he is so hungry, and his throat is so parched. He has long ago given up praying, but he cannot help but hope for some kind of sustenance or any kind of warmth at all, even the small amount carried by the air from the rest of the ship. His clothing is thin, and sitting here in the dark against the cold hull, well beneath the water-line, is torture of a kind.

“Captain - there’s a door here.” The call comes from outside, in a voice that sounds like it belongs to a younger man, and he can’t quite help the thrill of anticipation at the sound of a voice - a real, actual voice saying real words instead of grunting at him. He hears someone’s booted feet come closer, hears the creak of a lantern as it’s opened further to illuminate the darkened hold. It’s night - it has to be, surely, for it to be so dark that they need a lantern.

“Here? Why on Earth would there be a door here?” The voice is light - lighter than he would have expected, and he sits up, frowning.

“It’s been locked from the outside,” another voice says, this one older with a different accent. “You don’t think -?”

There’s a shuffling noise, and he feels his heart start to pound. No. They’re going to turn around, he thinks, the panic hitting him suddenly. They’re going to turn around and leave him here, and he doesn’t want to starve. Die, maybe, but not that way - not here, in the dark with the rats, and the thought makes him brave. He clears his throat. He hasn’t spoken in so long - he’ll sound like a rusty hinge but he doesn’t care, can’t care, not now.

“Hello?” he calls, and hears swearing.

“Son of a bitch,” the younger man says. “A prisoner?”

“None on the manifest.”

“Let me out and I’ll explain,” he calls - and hears the Captain give a short, sharp gasp.

“Captain?” The elder of the two male voices asks.

“Get this door open.” The Captain’s voice again, this time tense, short, almost peremptory. “ _Now_ , Billy.”

There’s something familiar in that voice, he thinks - something he should recognize, and in truth, he does, but it’s not possible, for it reminds him of -

The door shudders and he scrambles away from it, getting to his feet to stand in the corner of the cell, huddled against the wall. Someone swears loudly, and then the door shudders again and cracks. Another blow splinters the wood, and then the door is opening, revealing -

He throws his hand up to shield his eyes. The light hurts after so long in the dark, and he blinks over and over again, trying to force his eyes to adjust faster. He can hear the sounds of feet approaching him, and then sees a set of boots stop just in front of him. Someone’s hand touches his arm, and he flinches instinctively, shrinking away. The hand returns, gentle, but insistent, and he allows it to lower his arm, revealing -

“It’s not possible,” the dark-haired woman in front of him whispers. “It can’t be -”

“Miranda?” The name escapes his lips in a croak, and Miranda Hamilton’s eyes go wide.  Her lips part in surprise, and he feels his stomach turn over, the shock hitting him. She’s here. She’s here, in front of him, and he -

“It cannot be,” she murmurs again. “You died. They murdered you -”

“Miranda,” he croaks again, and then suddenly there are arms enfolding him, squeezing, wrapped around him so tightly as to almost deny him breath. He raises his arms after a moment, returning the embrace fiercely, holding on as if she might disappear at any moment, but she’s not going to, not this time. She’s real. He can feel the tears welling, can feel his own breath shaking. He can smell her perfume, can feel the roughness of her clothing against his hands. Real. Truly, actually real and alive and here for him at last. The thought is enough to send the tears rolling down his cheeks, his breath coming short and fast, and he shudders, not saying a word, just allowing himself to be held for the first time in ten years.  

“You’re not dead,” Miranda nearly sobs. “My God - you’re not -” She pulls back, staring him full in the face.

“You’re alive,” she breaths. “Thank God.” She pulls him to her again, holding onto him as he begins to sob, begins to break down, and she simply rocks back and forth, holding onto him, pressing kisses into his hair. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.” He cannot quite believe that, but it does not matter, not now. Miranda continues to murmur nonsense words into his ear, and past all the tears, he can hear her whisper his name over and over again.

“James,” she murmurs, like a litany. “I have you. My James - you’re going to be alright.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and ye shall receive! Here's chapter one, all ready to go, and chapter three is well on its way to being done!

“it is a serious thing

just to be alive

   on this fresh morning

       in this broken world.” - Mary Oliver, from “Invitation”, Red Bird: Poems  


December, 1705:

_He does not see the end of his career coming._

_It happens so swiftly. One moment, he is James McGraw, Lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, liaison to Lord Hamilton and the protegé of an Admiral and the next -_

_“You are to be committed to Bethlem Hospital until such time as I deem it appropriate to release you. I will tolerate no further defiance, from you or my son.”_

_Alfred’s voice pronounces his sentence, and James feels the world stop turning, feels ice pierce him and fire race across his skin._

_The roaring in his ears blocks out all other sound as fear grips him. No. No - this cannot be happening -_

_He looks to Admiral Hennessey, and finds the same outrage, the same shock on his aged face. It only adds to the terror coursing through him._

_“This was not the arrangement!”_

_Admiral Hennessey’s voice sounds angry - frantic, almost, in a way that James has never heard it, and he cannot spare the attention it deserves, cannot focus, can’t_ _breathe_ _\- can only stand, paralyzed, disbelief coursing through him. This cannot - it cannot be -_

 _“Please -” he blurts. “Please -_ _sir_ _-”_

_Alfred’s blue eyes turn towards him. The older man stands, assessing, and James feels his heart stop._

_“You can’t_ _do_ _this,” he pleads, quiet, beseeching. “You can’t - Thomas won’t -”_

_“My son,” Alfred answers him, “must learn to obey. As must you. Take him. “_

_Time speeds up, racing past him, the words breaking the spell created.  James feels his lungs constrict, feels his palms begin to sweat. He takes a step forward, toward Alfred, toward Hennessey. He does not know what he means to do but -_

_Hands pull him backward, clamping around his upper arms, one in his hair, pulling sharply. He jerks, attempting to tear himself free, an oath leaving his lips._

_“Get your filthy fucking hands off me. Sir -_ _Alexander_ _-!”_

_Hennessey is moving forward, toward him, a terrible expression on his face, part horror and part fury._

_“Release him,” the Admiral orders. He reaches toward James, as if to grasp hold of him - and stops, a pistol pointed in his face. “You’ve made your damn point!” he snaps. “Let him go, damn you, or by God I’ll -”_

_“Do_ _not_ _test me, Admiral! As of this moment you stand to lose your career. Any further protest and I shall add your life to the list of casualties.” The Earl’s voice cuts through the clamor, and James feels his heart start to beat faster. This was not the plan, and that means -_

_“Damn you and your entire House,” Hennessey repeats. “James - lad -”_

_Alfred shifts, still frowning like a thundercloud, and when he speaks, there is ice in his voice._

_“You appear to have forgotten your duty, Hennessey. Allow me to remind you. Remove Mr. McGraw from -!”_

_Everything happens in a whirl. Alfred cuts off, as does all other sound in the room as James finally moves, panic spurring him to action. He will not be taken like this. He will not be taken_ _there_ _. He refuses. He_ _can’t_ _-_

_He won’t._

_He turns, ramming an elbow into the gut of one man and kneecapping another. They cry out, weapons dropping, hands going to their injuries, and James wrenches himself away from them, following up with blows hard enough to knock them to the ground, silent and unconscious. He can hear the sounds of startled voices. He does not have much time - just enough, though, to deal with Alfred. He turns back -_

_Alfred stands, and takes a step toward him, a knife in his hand, pointing it toward James. There is a look in his eyes, half fear and half simmering hatred, and the strength of it makes James’ stomach twist. Alfred, he recognizes, truly is vile. Thomas has said it before, but now James believes it wholeheartedly. That he would be willing to do this to his own son - to all of them -_

_“Lieutenant,” Alfred says, and there is venom in the word, “I advise that you go quietly. You cannot -”_

_James’ hand is moving toward his gun. Admiral Hennessey is nearby, already on his feet and James pivots to cover his flank -_

_There is a sound of metal on metal, and the cocking of a gun, and James stares, pistol raised but not aimed, shock racing through him, turning his throat dry and making everything in the office, including his own ragged breathing, sound louder. The Admiral -_

_Has not moved to apprehend him. Instead, he stands, holding Alfred’s own knife to his throat._

_“I will thank you, my lord,” Hennessey says in a deadly quiet tone, his voice tinted with a lilt that James has not heard in a very long time, “to refrain from threatening my son.” He presses the knife inward, drawing blood, just enough to begin to stain Alfred’s starched neckcloth. “You English prick,” he murmurs, and James can feel his heart start again. Slowly, slowly, he lowers the gun._

_“Sir,” James breathes. “Sir, you can’t -”_

_“Lieutenant, you may take my next words as an order. Go.” Hennessey’s voice is sure, and calm, his hand steady, and James feels his heart plummet into his boots at the sound of it._

_“Sir -” he starts again, and Hennessey’s eyes flick upward to him._

_“Run, damn you!”_

_James stands, frozen, shocked and angry and dazed. He cannot go. He cannot leave Hennessey here to -_

_“James McGraw,” Hennessey snaps. “So help me Boy, if you stay here I’ll -”_

_What he will do, James never discovers, for at that moment, Alfred seems to recall some long forgotten instinct toward belligerence. With an almighty heave, he throws Hennessey away from him, his hand going to his bleeding neck, and James hears shouting below and running footsteps._

_“Go!” Hennessey roars, and then James is turning, heading toward the door, heading toward freedom -_

_He does not see the blow that hits him from behind, and when he wakes -_

 

1715:

He can barely remember his grandmother.

The early days of James’ boyhood are a blur - lost to time. He recalls the constant crash of the waves against the shore that underlay his days and nights both. He remembers the crackling of the fire in his grandfather’s hearth, and he recalls the sound of his grandmother’s voice, soft and lilting with the Cornish accent, unapologetic about it in a way that his grandfather had never been about the traces of Irish in his vowels.  He remembers her firm but gentle manner, and the respect it had garnered from everyone in the village. Most of all, he recalls feeling utterly, completely safe - sheltered from the world outside, warm and dry and, if not always well-fed exactly, at least not starving - secure in a way that he has come to recognize as rare and fleeting. Certainly, there has been none of that in the past decade. Now, though -

He stands in the cabin of the ship, the candlelight throwing shadows in the darkened space, and he cannot help the sense of relief that threatens to overwhelm him. A real bath and a bed. He’d wished for both and as if by magic they had been given him, his good fortune as impossible to fathom as his downfall had been so many years ago. This may not be safety, exactly, but it is so close to it that he does not mind the difference. Jesus, how long has it been since he was last clean and warm at the same time?

He lifts his eyes toward the ceiling and blinks and swallows hard, willing away the urge to weep. The clothing Miranda has given him fits him the way none of the rags he was handed in Bethlem ever did, and it smells of a hundred things that James had never thought he would have ever again. And the cloth itself - He runs a hand over the sleeve of the shirt, feeling the softness of the fabric against his palm. He’s never been a man given to allowing himself much by way of luxury, but this-

_“You’ll feel better when you’ve had a chance to bathe,” Miranda tells him, her voice still soft and rich the way he remembers it. “Mr. Gates managed to turn up some clothing for you - you’re lucky, the captain of the vessel we took you from was about your height.” She turns to the small trunk, and James sits, still in shock, staring at her back. He needs to say something - needs to break the silence, to prove that he still can, and yet -_

_He clenches his fists against the shaking in his hands. He won’t be silent - not with her. He won’t allow what has been done to dissuade him from talking anymore._

_“Where the hell am I?’ he asks. His voice is rough, still, but Miranda’s shoulders relax at the sound of it, some of the tension going out of her. She turns._

_“Would you prefer the ship’s name, or our heading?” she asks, and James closes his eyes._

_“Both. Either,” he answers. His head is still swimming, and Miranda turns back, lays one hand on his shoulder. He tries not to flinch away and succeeds, a single muscle tic in his face the only sign that he is not comfortable with the contact. He will not fear_ _her_ _. He will not be the broken shell of a man they have tried to turn him into. Still - Miranda seems to notice, and he cannot help the shame that washes over him at the look on her face as she pulls away, removing her hand without comment._

_“You’re currently aboard a ship called the Walrus,” she tells him gently. “We’re heading northwest, catching the trades toward the coast of Florida with a view toward making port at St. Augustine, or we will be soon enough.”_

_He looks up at her, and she smiles._

_“It will all make a great deal more sense when you’ve rested,” she tells him, and rummages in the trunk for a moment longer. She pulls out a bar of soap, and he takes it, raising it through sheer muscle memory to his nose and breathing in the perfumed scent. It does not match Miranda - not in the way it would have back in London. The smell is all flowers and delicate things, and Miranda as he remembers her. The woman who stands in front of him though - He clears his throat before he speaks again. His voice sounds almost normal when he opens his mouth, and he’s grateful for that small mercy._

_“When did you become a sailor?” he asks, and Miranda shakes her head._

_“I’ll explain later,” she answers, handing him a bundle of clothing. “You look exhausted. You can stay here and rest - I’ll be back when we’ve finished securing the cargo from the prize and I’ve had a glance through the captain’s log.”_

_He catches her hand as she heads toward the door, and almost instantly wants to withdraw it. He’s filthy - he knows it, and by the look on her face, he smells as bad as he looks. He can’t tell, anymore - he’s grown used to it, and that thought shames him further._

_“James,” she starts. “I’m not going far -”_

_“Where is Thomas?” he asks, and she flinches. James feels his heart plummet. They’ve taken him - they must have done. Alfred had said - He looks away, trying desperately not to weep, only for her to kneel at his side, her hands coming up to cup both sides of his face, her fingers in his hair, disregarding the state he’s in entirely in favor of steadying him with her touch._

_“It isn’t like that,” she reassures him. “Thomas is -” She stops, looking downward briefly, and when she raises her eyes to meet his again she’s giving him the tight smile she uses when she’s hurting but doesn’t want to tell him. “He’s in Nassau,” she tells him, and he frowns. Nassau? But if Thomas is there, then why is Miranda -?_

_“I’ll explain everything,” she promises. “Go and bathe. I’ve asked the cook to heat up the water for you but it won’t stay warm for long.” She gestures toward the basin sitting in a stand at the far end of the cabin. There is steam rising from it, he notes, and inhales sharply. Hot water is a luxury he hasn’t had in - well, the same length of time he’s gone without everything else, all the better for that he does not have to submerge himself, and he loves her all the more for that small piece of badly-needed comfort._

_“Thank you,” he says, and she smiles, this time more genuinely. She places a kiss on his forehead, and then rises, walking away out the door. He watches her go, watches the door close behind her, and he can’t help the overwhelming sense of confusion and of wrongness that washes over him. This is not the Miranda he knows - this woman with her sailor’s gait and her shortened hair framing her face and wearing both gun and sword belts, her clothing smelling of her perfume and of gunpowder and blood - smells that James is all too familiar with, but not, he suspects, as intimately as Miranda is now. This is not the world he knows, and he has no idea what has occurred to so tilt that world on its axis, causing it to wobble. What the hell has happened in the ten years he’s been gone?_

_He rises shakily, and stands for a moment. His legs still feel unsteady after the weeks spent in the hold of the last ship largely inactive, and it is only the length of his naval career, twice the length of his imprisonment, that keeps him on his feet rather than pitching forward with the next roll of the ship. He curses under his breath as he limps toward the wash basin. He’s not going to find out anything by sitting, unwashed and tired._

Half an hour later, he is still contemplating the same questions.

He looks like hell, he thinks derisively. He hasn’t looked in a mirror in ten years, but he can scarcely escape the one that Miranda has hanging over her wash stand, despite the cloth she’s hung over it. He can still recognize his own face through the gauzy material, and what he can see is a fucking mess. He reaches out and pulls the cloth away. He may as well face the full horror of it now, he thinks, rather than surprising and inevitably depressing himself later.

It’s fully as bad as he’s been expecting. Ten years in Bedlam have not been kind. There are scars where before there was only smooth skin - places where the march of freckles has been interrupted by lines of shining scar tissue. He’s gaunt, and pale, even more so now that he’s washed away the filth of the past ten years, or at least the past two months or so. He can’t remember how long it’s been since his last cold water “treatment” and he doesn’t want to remember. He’ll count it ten years for all intents and purposes - it may as well be. Ten years of abuse, and now -

His hands are shaking. He grips hold of the sides of the wash table, chest heaving. He is warm and safe and dry, and he should not be having this reaction - not now, when all danger has passed, when he is finally, finally a free man again.

Free. The word reverberates in his head, and he feels his throat constrict. He is free. He hasn’t a penny to his name - no career, no plans, no fucking clue how the hell to proceed, just a head full of questions and a body that -  

He cuts the thought off. He refuses to think of that right now, or to imagine Miranda’s reaction upon seeing what Bedlam has done to him in full. Still - is it any good being free if he has no idea what to do with it?

“You look as if you could use a hand with that razor, friend.”

The voice sounds from behind him, and James whirls, the straight razor in hand. The man in the doorway holds up his hands, showing them empty.

“Easy,” he says, and James lowers the razor. This, he reminds himself, is Miranda’s ship. Miranda’s crew. And, judging by the look of this man - his demeanor, the way that he stands in Miranda’s cabin - the captain’s cabin - as if he has a right to be there -

“You’re the quartermaster,” he states, and the man gives him a nod.

“Aye. Hal Gates. Captain asked me to come across and see how you fared.”

James raises an eyebrow.

“And?” he asks.

“You look like shit,” Gates answers frankly. The answer is abrupt, and honest, and it strikes home inside James, shaking loose something that had been wound tight. He snorts, the sound surprising him, one corner of his mouth turning upward, and Gates gives him a smile in return. He sits slowly, and Gates advances into the cabin, coming closer.

“Apologies,” he offers. “I haven’t -” He stops. He hasn’t spoken more than a few words to anyone in years, and to do so now -

He swallows against the apprehension that wells up in him. This isn’t Bedlam. Gates is waiting, eyebrows raised expectantly, and James takes a deep breath.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he says finally, and Gates snorts.

“Make it sound as if I were the King’s own highness,” he answers. “Easy does it. You’re not on board a Navy ship, as I expect you’ve noticed.”

“Yes,” James admits. “That much is obvious.” He runs a hand over his face. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to answer a few questions?”

Gates shakes his head.

“Captain said not to try explaining anything m’self,” he answers, and James nods. That’s about what he had expected, in truth - Miranda is not one for delegating difficult tasks to underlings or friends, and judging by the affection in his voice when Gates speaks of her, he is the latter. The older man stands looking at him, and James waits.

“So,” Gates says after a moment. His voice is contemplative, his gaze sharp. “James McGraw, eh? There’s someone I wasn’t expecting, and neither was the Captain, by the look of things in that hold. Care to tell me what you were doing aboard that ship?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” James answers truthfully. “The ones that brought me aboard weren’t in the habit of sharing their plans.” _Or of talking to madmen_ he thinks bitterly but does not say aloud. He had wondered, sometimes, if he _had_ gone mad in Bedlam, and even now, he’s not quite sure he’s not experiencing some kind of elaborate delusion. Still - better to believe what he can see and smell and hear than to start questioning his senses now.

“Awfully convenient, you being aboard,” Gates says, and James can see at last the shape of his suspicions.

“You think I starved myself on purpose?” he asks. “You think I let myself get into this condition so that I could - do what, exactly?” He laughs, short and sharp, and Gates raises an eyebrow.

“Good question,” he answers. He crosses his arms, unyielding, and James suddenly knows without a shadow of a doubt that Miranda did not send him here, to interrogate James while he is still weak as a newborn kitten and liable to answer questions simply to be able to rest.

“You know, of course, that she’s not going to appreciate this,” James says, and Gates gives him a shark’s smile.

“You’re a fast one,” he answers. “I’ve known her now for ten years. I’ll take my chances. Are you a spy, or not?”

James does not speak. Instead, he rolls down the collar of his shirt. He has not fully examined the raised, long-since healed-over marks there, but he knows they exist, as ugly now as they were the first time they had restrained him in Bedlam and he had attempted to bite someone’s hand as they approached. That had earned him the collar they had placed around his neck for several months afterward.

“Does this look like it was put there yesterday?” he asks. Gates gives him a look, asking for permission to move closer, and James nods silently. Gates examines the mark, and then looks back up at him, both pity and a certain odd approval and even respect in his expression.

“No, it doesn’t,” he concedes. “Anyone pay for that?”

James shakes his head.

“Not yet.” Gates nods.

“Right.” He backs away, looking James up and down again, taking in his too-thin face and the wild mess that is his hair even now - at the pitiful state of him, and James endures it, ignoring the urge to snarl at him, to demand what fucking right he has to stare. “Right,” he repeats. “Well. I’ll send in the surgeon. He’ll want to have a look at you and all.” He clears his throat, and then shakes his head. “Bloody hell.”

James releases his collar, allowing it to cover his throat again. He’s not wearing much, by English standards, and the realization causes a red flush to travel up his face. He hasn’t spared much thought for modesty in the past years, but it looks as if there is some vestige left - one that he’ll have to outgrow, because it doesn’t look as if anyone here wears more than a single layer of clothing, and no wonder with the climate the way it is.

“I won’t need him,” he answers. “The surgeon. I’m well enough, but -” He gestures to his hair, the most visible victim of his time as a prisoner, now clean but still tangled and too long. He may be tired and hungry, but he is not stupid, or so dazed that he cannot see that he needs to win Miranda’s quartermaster over somehow.  He’s halfway there - it just needs one more small push, and if that sounds mercenary, then James doesn’t care. He won’t be abused again out of suspicion. “I look enough like an overgrown hedge already. I’d rather not make it worse trying to cut it by myself.”

Gates’ gaze softens, and James feels relief unfurl within him. There. He’s won this one.

“You’ll be wanting to keep the beard?” Gates asks, and James nods. He’s not letting anyone that near his throat with a razor for any reason, with the possible exception of Miranda, whom he can speak to later, hopefully.

“Good choice,” Gates says. “If you want I can give you a trim. Might get a bit short ‘round the ears, though.”

“That’s alright,” James answers. “I’ll tie back what’s left.” Long hair, like so much else about him, belongs to another world - another version of himself, now buried. If Miranda can wear her hair shorter here, then he will follow suit, and together maybe their shorn locks can serve as tribute to what they have lost. He’ll reconsider, perhaps, when he sees Thomas again. _If_ he sees Thomas again, he thinks, and suddenly he’s burning up with questions. What has happened to Thomas, and what the hell is Miranda doing here without him? Gates finishes his work, opening the door and shooing the fallen hair out of the cabin, and James is still thinking, only half his attention focused on the quartermaster, and the other half split between questions and the importunate insistence of his body that he is bone tired.

“I’ll tell the Captain you want a word,” Gates says as he leaves the cabin, and James gives him a startled look. He does not think he’s been speaking aloud. Gates snorts. “You’re not exactly a hard book to read at the moment,” he says, and sees himself out, leaving James to stew - and to examine the cabin. Book, Gates had said - a hard book to read, and there, in one corner of the cabin, sits a shelf full of them - another luxury James has not been allowed in a decade. If he reads, perhaps he will be able to stay awake long enough to ask Miranda the questions that are plaguing him. With sudden enthusiasm, he makes his way to the shelf, picking one of the volumes off of it, relishing the weight and the feel of it in his hand. If Miranda does not return immediately, he can at least begin to catch up on some of the literature he’s missed.

He passes the mirror on the way to the bookshelf, and looks into it one more time. Gates has done a passable job, he has to give him that. His head feels - odd, light, but at least he no longer looks as if a family of mice have been making their home in his hair and it’s still long enough to need to be pulled back away from his face. It’s a small improvement, but it feels important. With a feeling of at least partial contentment, he settles in on Miranda’s bed, book in hand, and is asleep within five minutes.

********************************

Gates doesn’t see the other man outside the cabin until he runs into him.

“Whoa - steady on.” The shorter man holds up a hand, and Gates rolls his eyes.

“You know, if you’d move a little louder than a cat, I wouldn’t keep tripping over you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” John Silver asks, and Gates sighs. Silver’s gaze grows more serious, and he nods toward the cabin.

“I take it he’s asleep,” he asks, and Gates nods.

“Should be surprised if he isn’t by now. Man looks as if he hasn’t had a wink of shut-eye the whole time he was locked up.”

“Not exactly surprising,” Silver answers. “Did he say much?”

Gates shakes his head.

“Didn’t have to. Still in shock, I think.”

Silver looks at him for a moment. There’s a contemplative look on the younger man’s face, one that Gates has come to know well since they picked him up a year ago.

“You like him, then?” Silver asks, and Gates scowls.

“I hardly know him,” he answers, and Silver grins. He reaches forward and collects a strand of hair from Gates’ shoulder - a strand of red hair that very much does not belong to Gates’ bald head. Silver raises his eyebrows, and Gates rolls his eyes skyward once again. “It was a haircut, not some kind of seal of approval,” he says. “The poor bastard looked like a hay stack.” Silver nods, a shit-eating grin still on his face, and Gates turns away, heading toward the larboard gunwale, where Miranda stands, a look of concentration on her face.

“I’ll see about finding him something to eat,” Silver calls, and Gates rounds on him.

“Christ - you really _do_ want her to kill you, don’t you?” he asks, and Silver grins. “If _you_ feed him, we’ll be putting him over the side in a bag before the day’s out - the man can’t stand up to a round of the shits from your cooking right now. Get Randall to fix him a plate.” Silver nods, and Gates turns away again.

“You’ve met him, then?” Miranda asks, and Gates nods.

“Aye,” he admits, and scowls at her look of mixed disappointment and reprimand. “Don’t give me that look,” he says. “I had to be sure. If you won’t watch your back, then I will.” Miranda turns away, unimpressed, and Gates lets it go. There’s no benefit to be had in arguing with her, not in this mood. “We’re keeping to the plans we discussed?” he asks, and Miranda hesitates, just for a moment. She stares out at the water for a moment, and then she nods, short and sharp.

“Yes. We can’t afford to dally, and James has always been the sort for whom activity is life itself. He’ll recover best if he’s given a task.”

Gates nods. He’s heard Miranda speak of her lieutenant before, and his impression of the man then had been a favorable one. He only hopes that their newest crew member will live up to his reputation.

“Aye. I’ll inform Mr. de Groot.”

Miranda nods again, and Gates turns, headed below decks. They’ll need to be underway quickly if they’re to make good time on their way north.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm alive, and both as a celebration of having gotten through surgery ok and as a birthday present to the lovely @flinthamilton, here is the next chapter, in which we finally get a glimpse of what Thomas is up to and James and Miranda have a midnight chat.

The ship has gone quiet by the time Miranda returns to her cabin.

They’ve been under way for an hour, making good time away from the ruined vessel in their wake, and yet she has not returned to her cabin before now - too restless, the fight still singing in her blood, fueled by purest rage.  She cannot face what lies ahead in her cabin - not and retain any semblance of the person she used to be, the person that James will be expecting, and so she stays away until fatigue and the lack of any real task to be accomplished above decks finally drive her below.

It’s a minor miracle, Miranda thinks, that the ship was, indeed, left floating, given her cargo. She’s never considered herself a truly violent woman, but she has seldom so badly wanted to wrap her hands around anyone’s neck and squeeze as she did the captain of the vessel they’d taken. The sight of James’ face, pale and too thin and half-covered in a scruffy-looking, overgrown beard that he never would have countenanced in London, is seared into her mind, stark and unforgiving. It makes her want to be ill - makes her want to rip and tear and scream, makes her want to turn the ship around and bear down on the barque again, just to wreak her vengeance on the man who had dared to keep him in such squalor - who had dared to lock him in the darkened hold with short rations and no company and -

She takes a deep breath before she opens the door. The captain of that ship is not the true enemy. He is not responsible for the entirety of what has happened to James - to her, to all of them, and she is not going to give in to the urge to do something unforgivable simply because she cannot lay her hands on Alfred Hamilton personally. She cannot take her anger into the cabin with her. James has had quite enough of an ordeal without being disturbed by a demonstration of her wrath. No. She will open the door. She will go to him, and -

She stops in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat. There, on the bed that she long ago insisted be brought aboard the ship, lies James, and for a moment she cannot breathe, so very right is the scene that lies before her. He is lying on his back, red hair fanning out on the pillow beneath him, a book open on his chest, sound asleep, and she drinks in the sight, allowing it to replace the horrid image of him in the hold. This is not London - this is not even England, and for that much she is grateful, but just for an instant she can believe that they are back at home and all is right with the world once more. She stands, staring at his supine form, and swallows hard. He is here - alive beyond all hope, and comfortable, in her bed. She has not dared to think of this during the past several hours - has not dared to allow herself to remember it, but this - this is how things should have been, all these years. Now, if only Thomas were present and about to walk through the door behind her -

She turns, closing the door, and crosses the room on silent feet, or as silent as she can be in the boots she now wears on a daily basis. She does not wish to disturb him, exhausted as he must be. The James of old would not have stirred, but she is willing to lay odds that he has changed, in that respect at least - she certainly has. Sure enough, as she crosses to the wardrobe, hoping to find at least a clean shirt, he begins to move - begins to waken, and she freezes. His eyelids do not quite flutter open, but his breathing changes just a hair, and she stands, waiting, hoping. The quiet is enough, evidently, to reassure him, because he resumes the steady, even breathing of sleep, and she heaves a sigh of relief and bends down, taking her boots off entirely before moving again. She changes clothing swiftly, her smoke-infused, bloodied things left behind the dressing screen in the corner of the cabin. She thinks briefly of attempting to wash her face, at least, but decides against it for the sake of making less noise and, after a moment, she moves toward the bed, careful not to allow her shadow to fall on her sleeping lover lest the shifting light do what her careful movements had not.  When she is certain that she is not going to wake him, she heaves a sigh, and sits down on the single chair in the room, her hands running through her hair from front to back, her elbows coming to rest on her knees.  

Thomas. She has not allowed herself to think of him either, but she must now. She has not allowed herself to do so in so very long - to imagine, but this -

She cannot keep silent about this - does not want to. She will need to notify Thomas that James is alive - will need to bring James to him. She can do no less, and to do that -

She closes her eyes, tears welling in their corners unbidden as she does so. To do what she knows she must do, she will need a minor miracle - several really, and why, oh _why_ must this be so much harder than she had imagined? Why can the world not simply right itself for once, instead of forcing her to tear it to pieces in order to remake the puzzle in a shape of her liking? Why -

Why, after ten years, does she insist on asking these questions of herself? She rubs a hand over her eyes, and cannot help the yawn that takes her halfway through the gesture, which she covers with the back of one hand. She is tired - beyond tired, now, and she needs sleep if she is to be any good to her crew in the morning. She is _always_ tired, she thinks with a twinge of bitterness. She will rise in the morning and greet James for the first time in ten years and she will be, if she is very lucky, only fractionally less tired then than she is now.

“Thomas,” she murmurs, just barely a whisper, “Darling, I wish you were here. You’d know what to do about all of this. You would likely _smile_ at someone and have what I need within ten minutes.” He would, too, she thinks. Thomas has always been gifted with the charisma to sway an audience, while Miranda -

Miranda needs sleep. She stands, heading toward her bed. She has done her duty here, she thinks. James is sleeping peacefully, and there is little she can do to address any of the problems swimming through her head until dawn comes or he wakes, with the probability being that the former will come sooner than the latter. Still - she is loathe to leave him to go to sleep alone in a darkened room, possibly to wake in the middle of the night and panic, and the bed is soft - wide enough for both of them if she is careful in getting in. Tomorrow she will think on miracles and plans and Thomas.

 

_Nassau:_

The night here is curiously silent. The birds have stopped singing in the trees with dusk having come and gone, and the insects are being particularly quiet tonight - perhaps from the profusion of smoke coming from the harbor. There is a hushed quality to the darkness, and the breeze that floats in through the window is balmy - perfect for a good night’s rest.

There is no environmental cause for the fact that he cannot sleep.  

He’s tried - oh, how he has tried, but the thoughts keep spinning round in his head, and there’s no _use_ , he thinks with something strongly resembling anger, in lying in bed when there is so much to be done, charts to be looked at, supply lists to be pored over, orders to be drafted -

His will to be written, because Thomas Hamilton has no particular illusions about his chances of surviving what is to come. He will be caught. He will be tried, and he will be executed, and there isn’t a damn thing he can do to stop it. He stands in the darkened study, and he knows it without a single ounce of doubt. His candle flame flickers at some draft, and he gives it a dirty look, mentally daring it to be the next thing to give him trouble. He is not normally this petulant, this irritable, but when, he thinks, is the last time anything in his life was _normal?_

He rakes a hand through his hair. It seems an age since he last slept soundly - an age since he read a book or attended a function or did anything but stare at the damned wretched map, willing it to tell him something other than what it has told him for the past month - to change its configuration somehow magically overnight. It will not. The ships remain in place around his harbor. Morale remains low and lowering. The supplies continue to dwindle - although, is it him, or are they actually decreasing faster than they should? He leans in, looking again at the list, comparing the numbers. Surely they should have more pounds of flour than this? The sugar count seems high in comparison, but the numbers swim in front of his eyes the more he looks, and he leans on the table for support.

“I would make a recommendation, if you will allow it.” The voice comes from behind him, and he turns to find Admiral Hennessey standing in the doorway. “ _Sit_ down before you _fall_ down,” the older man suggests, and Thomas gives him a slightly bleary look.

“Admiral,” he greets, and Hennessey snorts.

“I’m no more an admiral than you are a quartermaster,” he says, waving a hand toward the documents on the table, and Thomas closes his eyes.

“You are still the commander of this garrison, and I am still governor here, no matter how handsomely my father may have bribed Captain Hume to attempt this little coup.”

“I’m sure the hangman will be very impressed,” Hennessey points out. “Thomas - you _must_  rest.”

The older man’s voice is gentle now, his gaze concerned.  Thomas snorts.

“Says the man who is _also_ awake at -” He checks the clock. “Good God, is that the time?”

Hennessey gives him a half smile, and Thomas drags a hand over his face, rubbing his fingers beneath his eyes and up over the bridge of his nose, swearing under his breath. He’s managed to work his way nearly to dawn - again. If he looks out the window, he is certain he will see the sky lightening, and the thought is painful. Not again. All he wants is sleep - must it be so difficult to find it?

His face must reflect his thoughts, because Hennessey crosses the room, coming to stand beside him, a hand on his arm, sympathy in his eyes.

“Bed,” he says firmly, and Thomas nods. He must sleep, or at least try to, even if only for a few hours, morning or not. His position as governor earns him that much, at least.

“Only until eight o’clock,” he insists. “Don’t let me sleep longer than that. There are -”

“A thousand things to be done, all of which can be delegated, at least temporarily. You are not a one-man fleet,” Hennessey reminds him, and he looks to the map once more.

“I only wish I were,” he murmurs. “ _Damn_ them and damn their bloody blockade!”

“Thomas,” Hennessey says again, and Thomas closes his eyes.

“All the things I have done to make this possible. All the people I have failed -” He shakes his head. “I can’t let it all mean nothing,” he says, opening his eyes again to look at Hennessey.

“It won’t,” Hennessey promises. “Did you send the pigeon?”

Thomas nods wearily.

“Then there is nothing more to be done. We must wait, and hope that your wife has received our message.”

Thomas gives a huff of mirthless laughter.

“Hope,” he says. “I find I’m running rather short of that these days.”

Hennessey does not say a word, just squeezes Thomas’ arm where he still has hold of it.

“Take your rest,” he says finally. “Things will -” He stops, the platitude sticking in his throat, and he shakes his head. “Take your rest,” he repeats, and Thomas nods. Things will not look better in the morning - they never do, but at least he will be less likely to weep over them when he wakes.

“Goodnight, Admiral,” he answers, and takes his candle, blowing it out before moving across the slowly lightening study toward his chamber and bed.

 

_1705:_

_It begins the day that James is taken from them._

_He cannot believe it at first. It is too sudden, the concept too horrible for him to comprehend. One moment, he is eagerly anticipating James’ return to his home. He has so many plans - plans for Nassau, plans for their own future - wonderfully filthy plans for what he will do to show James his appreciation for the beard his lover has grown while he’s been away. He is contemplating the logistics of removing them all to the countryside for a week long reunion when -_

_“They have taken him to Bethlem,” Peter tells him, and the words are incomprehensible, wrong,_ _unthinkable_ _. “Your father -” Peter starts, and Thomas feels his world end, feels the ground spin out from beneath him as his lungs constrict and his heart stops beating, leaving nothing but pain behind._

_“No.” The word is a wrenching, horrified whisper. “No. No, no -”_

_He is going to be ill. He is absolutely going to -_

_“What are Alfred’s terms?” Miranda’s voice is a terrible thing - controlled and even and her hands are shaking, clenched into fists at her sides._

_“Miranda -” Peter starts, and his wife explodes, all calm leaving her, suddenly all clenched teeth and fury as she rounds on Peter._

_“He would not do this without an ulterior motive so tell me what the_ _hell_ _he wants to leave James un-tormented._ _Tell me_ _!”_

_Peter does not answer, and Thomas frowns, confused at the sudden silence. He has collapsed, he realizes - he is sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to himself, as if by doing so he can somehow shield himself from this. He looks up, and finds Peter holding out a sheaf of papers._

_“What - what are these for?” he asks, and Peter looks at him grimly._

_“You are to govern New Providence,” he says softly, and Thomas recognizes the rolled up documents - his original plan for the island. James’ writing is still visible on the part that is sticking out, like a visible reminder of his lover’s plight, and he swallows._

_“Governor?” Peter nods, and Thomas understands. He closes his eyes._

_“He wants me to be the governor. He wants me to go there and -” He stops, his stomach rebelling. No. It is abhorrent - it is unbelievable -_

_“He says he will spare James’ life if you follow his orders to the letter. Deviations -” Peter does not finish, but Thomas can imagine._

_“I deviate and he kills James,” he finishes. Peter nods, and Thomas feels a sob well up within him as he comprehends the full magnitude and malevolent genius of his father’s scheme._

_“Admiral Hennessey is to be sent with you.”_

_Peter’s words are low - sympathetic, and Thomas closes his eyes again, unable to keep them open. He feels the tears well up in the corners of them and he lowers his head, allowing them to fall as they will without Peter seeing._

_“He means to bring me to heel,” Thomas says through numb lips. “If I don’t comply of my own will, the Admiral will force me to - James is his son in all but name. I can’t -” He starts to shake, the reality of the situation hitting him all at once. “I can’t save him,” he whispers, and Peter gives him a look of mingled sympathy and something else, something Thomas can’t identify at the moment - grief of his own, perhaps._

_“I’m sorry, Thomas,” the other man says quietly. “I did all I could.”_

_It’s not enough. Thomas can hold it in no longer. He pulls his legs closer to him, and weeps._

 

1715, the Walrus:

He wakes with a start.

He is in a darkened room, and for a moment, the darkness throws him. He is in the dark, on a ship, and -

“James - shh, it’s alright.” A voice sounds from behind him, and he sits up, startled and frightened until he turns his head to find Miranda beside him, her dark eyes fixed on him, quite clearly concerned. “James?”

The events of the day before come flooding back. Miranda. The pirates. The quartermaster, and the broken door and -

He closes his eyes, breathing in short gasps, feeling the panic begin to fade away. This, then, is the present - this is real, this bed and Miranda’s presence. He is truly here and not dreaming, and that’s a blessed relief, because the dream was - vivid and disturbing and he is still shaking, still half lost to the world pictured therein. He takes a deep breath, and another, and hears Miranda get up - hears her light a candle, and feels the moment that she returns to the bed, sitting down next to him. He opens his eyes, and she reaches out a hand tentatively, stopping before she makes contact, searching his face. He nods, and she finishes the gesture, rubbing up and down his back, trying to give him some small measure of relief through the repetitive motion. It works, to some degree. He is not alone - he is not locked in a cell, or in the abandoned hold. The warmth of her hand through his shirt proves that, and for just a moment he wants to lean back into her touch. He does not - the fear that follows that thought is too strong. Hands have meant pain for too long, and he cannot -

He is not in Bedlam anymore. The thought is fierce, his own fear filling him with anger. This is Miranda’s bed, and Miranda is beside him. This is not fucking Bedlam. He relaxes his shoulders deliberately and lets the tension leave him, even though doing so uses most of the willpower he has left. He is not going to fear _Miranda_.

“How - how did you know to -?” he asks, gesturing to where she has been sleeping alongside him.

“We’ve all had our nightmares, this past decade,” she answers softly and he feels his anger increase at the sound of her voice - at the saddened understanding in it. He has spent the past ten years in a cell but she, he suddenly understands, has been no less tormented and he cannot process that right now - cannot bear to think about it in detail. The nightmare is still clinging to him, and he feels - shaky, as if he has been disassembled and put back together in the wrong order, and he hates it with all his being. This is not who he is. This is not who he was. He clenches his teeth, and forces himself to uncurl the rest of the way, forces himself to begin to breathe evenly. He is James McGraw, and he is not going to be afraid of a nightmare like a fucking child.

“I’m alright,” he insists as Miranda begins to rub his back again, and she withdraws her hand.

“Of course,” she answers, and a flash of something like shame travels through him. She is trying to help - snapping at her is a poor repayment for the effort. He looks over his shoulder at her, meeting her eyes with his, and she gives him a half smile at the apology in them.

“Sorry,” he offers. “I -” He pushes a hand through his hair. It is still shaking, he notices, and lowers it again, frustration welling up in him. He is safe. He is safe, and finally free, and now -

His heart is finally slowing down its pace, no longer banging away against his ribs. He gets up and goes to the basin, then makes a face at the mess therein. He’s bathed in worse, god knows, but those days are now behind him, or at least so he hopes. Miranda must have come in and cleaned up after he went to sleep, he thinks, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later as Miranda gets up after him, crossing the room as well.

“Let me,” she offers, and he stands aside, allowing her to toss the contents out the porthole. Moonlight shines through the glass, and he takes the moment to look at her face properly.

She looks -

Christ, she looks tired. He knows that half of it is the burden of command - the wearing, godawful grind that is being in charge of the ship and everyone aboard, but the rest -

“I’m sorry for waking you,” he apologizes, and she shakes her head even as she bends to retrieve the pitcher of water from the floor.

“Don’t be,” she answers softly. She pours water into the basin in silence, and he leans forward, cupping his hands to splash water on his sweat-covered face. He wipes the residue off with his sleeve, and she watches, silent, a look on her face that is half concern and half anger. The former he understands, but the latter -

“What?” he asks, and she shakes her head.

“They’ve left so little of you for me to find,” she answers, and he closes his eyes.

“Miranda -” he starts. He does not want to have this conversation - not now, when he still feels as though his body somehow does not belong to him - as if his consciousness has been trapped in a prison made up of scars and skin stretched too tight over bones. He does not want to contemplate just how wretched he must look to her eyes when he is still trying to absorb the reality that for the first time in ten years there is a chance for him to reverse some of the damage that has been done. He cannot face his limitations anew when he has only been a free man with all the world before him again for the space of a few hours.

“I know,” he starts, “what I must look like - how I must seem to you. I know I’m not exactly an appealing sight at the moment but -”

He stops, cut off abruptly at the sound of Miranda’s sharp inhalation, and his eyes go to meet hers, drawn involuntarily to her face. He finds her looking directly at him, the anger in her eyes replaced by sorrow and a touch of remorse as she looks at him, but there is, thank God, no pity.

“James,” she murmurs, and the stops, staring at him for a moment. “You cannot possibly think -” It is her turn to stop mid-sentence this time, and she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment.

“No,” she says finally, opening them to look directly at him. “I never meant that. I could not.” She takes a step forward, towards him and slowly, slowly reaches out to touch him - to cup his jaw, her hand resting warm against his cheek, and he allows himself to lean into the touch, allows himself the comfort the gesture is intended to convey.

“You are not some broken toy that I have tired of,” she tells him softly. “I know that there are ten years between us. I know that you have spent that time alone, and I am sure you have wondered if Thomas and I ever loved you enough to come for you. If -” He can feel his brows drawing together, feels his heart stutter at the sentence, and he stares at her, startled. She looks back without flinching. He has wondered - so many times, over the past decade, and somehow she _knows_ it. He looks at her, searching her face, and finds nothing of pity there, or of disgust - only burning anger and resolve.

“We should have come for you,” she says. “We wanted to, and we did not, and James, I am so, so sorry. I can't change the past but I can promise that _I will never_ fail to come for you ever again. Do you believe me?”

He nods wordlessly. He does believe her, he realizes. Miranda of old had been a woman of her word, but she had also been a woman of words rather than actions. He has seen for himself how powerless that Miranda had been against the power of Alfred and the British legal system - he has lived ten years as a prisoner as a result. This new, fiercer Miranda, though - this woman with her burning dark eyes in a face that has aged before her time, this pirate captain that inspires respect and fear in the hearts of hardened killers - he believes her absolutely and without question, and that thought is enough to send warmth moving through him. She is beautiful - beautiful and strong and she has saved his life, saved his sanity when no one else would do it. She has saved him, and now -

God, it has been so long since his last kiss.

He reaches forward, his hand mirroring hers, cupping her jaw, and then slowly, slowly they lean toward one another, their lips meeting almost chastely at first and then Miranda makes a small, almost wounded sound in her throat and reaches out with her other hand, grasping hold of the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer to her, deepening the kiss, turning it into something desperate and needy and joyful which he cannot help but respond to. His body molds itself against hers as they attempt to make up for ten years of lost touches, and for just a moment, James loses himself in the smell and the taste of her, in the feeling of her hands twining in his hair even as his do the same to her. It has been so very long since the last time, and for a moment it is all he can do to keep breathing. His body sings at the contact, and he suddenly realizes how very much he has needed this - how much he has longed for this all these years. To his shame, he feels tears start to well in his eyes again, and he closes them, swallowing a sob even as Miranda’s tongue laves the roof of his mouth and his hand curls around her head, cradling it even as her hands release his shirt and move to his waist, coming to rest inside the shirt hem against his skin, warm and comforting in a way that he has forgotten touch can be. When they break apart at last, they’re both panting for breath. The second kiss is gentler, slower, more about comfort than desperation.

“Welcome home,” she murmurs finally, her voice still ragged, and he gives a shuddering breath, his heart stuttering.

“I - Christ,” he murmured. “Christ, Miranda.” His voice shakes, and he stops, unable to give voice to everything he wants to say. He has not ever thought to hear those words - has thought he would never come home ever again, and now -

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, her voice shaking fully as much as his. “James - I’m so sorry. I left you there -”

“I didn’t run when I had the chance,” he answers her, and she pulls back, looking at him. “I didn’t stop Thomas. I should have fucking listened to you -” He starts, and she shakes her head.

“No. James -” She shakes her head again, more vehemently. “No,” she repeats, and embraces him again, her face buried in his shoulder, hands still at his waist. “No more apologies,” she says, her words muffled by his shirt. “I thought you were dead,” she tells him. “We both did. Thomas -”

“They told me the same thing about you, years ago,” he rasps. He pulls back, his hand still cradling the back of her head, her hair twined about his fingers, and he looks at her face properly this time, taking in the changes time has wrought on her. She is still Miranda, he thinks. Her face is the same. The look in her eyes is the same as she regards him, and suddenly he is overwhelmingly glad to see her, to be here, and silently he resolves to save questions for the morning. He moves one hand, running it up her side, and she raises her eyebrows, understanding where his train of thought has led him.

“Are you certain?” she asks quietly. “James -”

“If you don’t want to -” he starts, and then blinks as a wave of exhaustion washes over him, sped along by the emotional upheaval of the past half hour. He yawns, his hand rising halfway to his mouth to cover it, and he hears Miranda give a huff of laughter.

“Back to bed, I think,” she says, and he nods, a grimace made of equal parts embarrassment and genuine irritation crossing his face.

“Give it a day or two,” Miranda says softly. “Rest, recover, and then -” She removes one hand from his waist and runs it down his neck, her fingertips ghosting over the hollow of his throat before her palm comes to rest against his chest. “I’ll make certain you have a homecoming to be remembered.”

He groans, and she laughs. The exhaustion, though, is too strong for him to retaliate, and he catches her hand, raising it to his mouth to kiss the back of it, his lips lingering on her skin for a moment. He will have answers in the morning, but for now -

“Stay with me?” he asks, and she nods.

“Of course. Sweet dreams, James.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

_ Nassau _ :

“My lord? My lord - forgive me, but you said to wake you -”

He is not ready to be awake. It is far too soon - far too little time has passed since he at last managed to fall asleep in his bed, face-down, his bare torso only covered partially by the thin sheet, and yet he cannot deny that the sun has risen and is shining directly on his face. He squeezes his eyes shut and rolls over, opening them only when he can no longer see the light from inside his lids, and pushes himself up. The servant has moved off, bustling about the room in her usual subdued fashion, and he takes a moment to wipe the sleep out of his eyes, fatigue still clinging to him. 

The room he lies in is wonderful. He’s thought so since he first laid eyes on the space - full of sunlight in the morning and dark in the afternoons when the sun is at its highest, making it cooler than the rest of the house - a bower shut away from the rest of the world. It’s the ideal space, with its white walls and its balcony, and while he is told that the previous governor had chosen a different room for himself and his wife, he cannot for the life of him imagine why. Miranda had said -

He shuts his eyes again and swallows hard, laying one hand against the mattress, allowing the smoothness of the sheets against his hand to penetrate his consciousness - focuses on it, trying desperately to drive the thought from his mind. Miranda’s scent still lingers in the wardrobe and storage chests, and on mornings like this one he can almost, almost believe that if he simply gets dressed and goes downstairs, there she would be, at the breakfast table. The thought is an old, well-worn one, and it never hurts any less, and somehow Thomas cannot let go of it. 

It is his own fault. He knows it - none better. There is nothing to be done for this particular brand of sorrow at the moment, and he should be getting up, getting dressed - going about the business of running the island. His fists ball in the sheets on either side of him. He does not want to do this - any of this. He wants to stay here, in this bed. He wants to get enough sleep for once and he wants -

He runs a hand through his hair wearily. He wants the part of his mind that is evidently still a fractious, particularly lazy English nobleman to be quiet and allow him to get on with life, or the semblance of it that he’s become used to. With difficulty he levers himself to his feet, bare soles hitting the hardwood floor. There will be time, later, for mourning. He has told himself so for ten years, and one day soon, he intends to collect on that promise. For now, though -

“Jean,” he calls. “Jean - ask the kitchen to heat some water, would you? I would like to take a bath.” The hot water, he thinks, should help him come to, and by the time he’s finished, there will be breakfast and other matters to think on, and perhaps the steam will remove the scent of Miranda from his mind.  
***********************************************

_ The Walrus: _

It has been an age since he’s felt sunlight on his face.

No one would think it to look at him, but he’s gone a great part of his life without much by way of direct contact with the sun’s rays. The freckles that dot his skin say otherwise, but it’s true, and yet today, James cannot bring himself to move. The wind on his face and the heat of the sun are both harsher than he is accustomed to after ten years. The former brushes his cheeks, and the latter burns after no more than a few moments, and he does not care about either, because for the first time in a decade he has woken in a bed, comfortable, well-rested, and gotten up to find himself entirely free to do whatever the hell he pleases, and what pleases him right now is to look out at the vast expanse of the ocean and listen to the sounds of the ship creaking and the men calling to one another, joking and arguing and simply talking. 

“Well,” a voice says at his elbow. “Welcome to the land of the living.” 

He turns, and sees a brilliant grin being directed at him. 

“I confess,” the man continues, “I didn’t expect to see you for another day or two. Hungry?” 

He is - ravenously so, in fact, and the growl that emits from his stomach is testament to the fact, and yet he does not answer, preferring instead to survey the man before him, with his curly black hair and violently blue eyes.

“And you are?” he asks, and the other man’s grin widens if possible. 

“John Silver,” he answers. 

“You don’t look much like a cook,” he says skeptically, and the man’s eyes light up.

“Finally!” he exclaims, “a man with some sense! Did you hear that, Billy?” 

“You’re not joining the rigging crew,” the absurdly tall man James recalls as Miranda’s bosun answers laconically. He looks at James and raises one eyebrow. “You, on the other hand -”

“Sizin’ him up already?” Gates’ voice comes from behind Billy and he turns, surprised. 

“Captain said to find him a place,” Billy answers, and Gates snorts. 

“Aye, but not before he’s had a chance to get his bearings. So - what do you make of her?” 

This last is directed at James, who blinks. He’s not used to being asked for his opinion anymore. The novelty strikes him all at once, and it takes a moment before he can find his voice again - before he can clear his throat and answer in a voice that sounds only marginally like the creaking of the door in his cell in Bedlam.  

“She’s a credit to you, Mr. Gates,” he answers, and Gates grins. “Hell of a name for a ship like this, though,” he says, and Billy laughs. 

“That’s what the captain said,” he answers. “She wanted to change it, I think, but the men wouldn’t hear of it.”

“That’s because there’s nothing wrong with her name as is,” Gates answered. “Bunch of fancy bastards. If Henry Avery could hear you lot -”

“And that,” a voice murmurs in James’ ear, “is a cue to leave if I ever heard one.” 

James turns, startled, and Silver flashes him a grin. “He’ll be on about sailing under Avery for the next half hour or so, and while he can tell some truly hair-raising tales, I’m fairly certain you’d rather not hear them on an empty stomach.”

James eyes the man, and then his stomach growls as if on cue, settling the matter for him.

“Lead on,” he answers, and they turn, heading toward the main hatch and the galley. They clear the hatch, and then the sunlight is gone, and James spares a moment to miss it fiercely. Fortunately, they are not yet deep within the ship - there is light and air here, and he feels himself release a breath. He has been afraid, on some level, that he will step below decks and find himself with the shakes, unable to venture further. He has seen stranger things happen than a man losing his nerve when faced with terrible memories, and he is grateful to find that the lower decks of the ship are as familiar to him as ever. Whether he will be able to brave the hold eventually is another question but here, on the upper decks, he can breathe easy, and he follows Silver, doing what he can to recall that he can now support himself against the rolling of the ship with his unchained hands - another novelty. The ship rolls beneath them at least once on the trip, and Silver throws a look over his shoulder.

“Alright there?” 

James nods, and they continue their journey toward the galley. 

“Hello, Randall!” Silver greets as they enter the cramped cooking area. He turns to James, angling his body such that James can see past him to the older man that stands by the fire, stirring what looks to be soup.

“Randall, this is - I don’t think I caught your name,” he tells James.

“McGraw,” James answers. “James McGraw.” 

“Right. James - this is Randall. Randall - James here just joined our crew last night, and the Captain will be extremely unhappy if you spit in his soup. Clear?” 

Randall stares.

“I  _ can  _ cook,” he answers slowly, and James snorts, surprising himself with the sound.

“Well, thank God for that - someone has to,” he says, and something flashes through Randall’s eyes - surprise, maybe, and turns away. When he turns back, there’s a bowl in his hands, and a plate as well. 

“Eat,” he orders, thrusting both at James, and Silver raises his eyebrows. 

“Why Randall,” he says, “that may be as close as you’ve ever come to approving of someone.” He turns away, missing the scowl that Randall throws his way. James feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips as he takes his food, settling down at one of the swinging tables in the mess. It’s been a while since he’s eaten at one of these, but he still remembers the trick to it, and he begins to eat carefully and slowly.

“So,” he says, as a means of distracting himself, “if you’re not the cook, and you don’t serve on the crew elsewhere, what do you do?” He’s halfway through the plate in front of him, tongue singing the praises of real food. It does not matter who does the cooking, or how bad it might be - anything that is not stale bread and hardened bits of unidentifiable salted meat is a damn miracle, and it is all he can do not to wolf it down immediately and make himself ill. 

“Oh, officially I  _ am _ part of the crew,” Silver hastens to assure him. “I’ve even been over the side once or twice. I assist Randall and do whatever else needs doing - there’s a surprising amount of stitching and splicing of rope to be done. I’ve asked Mr. Dufresne if I can assist in keeping the books once or twice, but -”

“And unofficially?” James asks, and Silver gives him a look.

“Do you know - you’re the first person that’s ever thought to ask that question, apart, of course, from the captain?” 

James frowns. 

“You’re joking,” he says flatly. He’s getting the hang of conversation again, he thinks. It’s been years, but the gears are turning, his mind slowly returning to some semblance of its former sharpness now that he’s slept and eaten. He starts in on the soup. “You’re too annoying for anyone not to have wondered what you’re meant to be doing.” 

Silver laughs at that. 

“You’re  _ not _ the first person to have thought that,” he answers. “Most of them express it by punching me, or at least they used to.”

“Keep talking,” James answers dryly, and Silver laughs again. “You didn’t answer the question,” James points out, and Silver’s smile turns easier, more relaxed. 

“I’m the captain’s spy,” he admits, and James stops eating, half choking on the soup he’s in the process of swallowing. 

“Beg pardon?” he manages at last, weakly, and Silver shrugs. 

“I keep an eye on the crew for her,” he answers. “I find the trouble-makers, I listen to their concerns, and then I either assuage them myself or I let the Captain know and allow her to handle matters directly. It works - frighteningly well, really. Just ask her.” 

James stares, shocked, and the dark-haired man continues to smile, seemingly unconcerned.

“What the hell could possibly have convinced you to do something so fucking suicidal?” James asks finally. “And why the fuck would you tell me about it?” 

Silver shrugs again. 

“I help to keep the Captain safe, and in return, I’ve been promised a not-inconsiderable sum of money. I also get the protection of her husband, and the privilege of working aboard the only ship sailing out of Ocracoke that hasn’t experienced a single mutiny and accompanying fight to the death among the crew in over three years.” 

James swallows hard. If what Silver says is true -

“Wait,” he says. “Wait a moment. Ocracoke?” James has abandoned his plate entirely by now, staring at Silver, brows furrowed, tension building in his shoulders as he leans forward. “Why the hell would she be sailing out of Ocracoke if Tho - if her husband is in Nassau? Why -?”

“You don’t know?” Silver asks, and James frowns. 

“Of course not,” he answers. “Just answer the -”

“ _ Damn _ it!” Silver answers, and James stops. “I was hoping you knew!” James stares, and Silver rolls his eyes, hands rising a fraction, and James flinches. Silver notices - of course he does, damn him - and lowers his hands again immediately. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, but no less focused. “She didn’t tell you anything?” 

“If she had I’d hardly be sharing it,” James points out, and Silver scowls. 

“Don’t you want to know?” he demands. “Christ. If she won’t tell  _ you  _ -”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” James asks pointedly. He’s not going to answer the question. He won’t. Silver may be Miranda’s spy - may be her closest ally on this ship next to Gates, but James knows next to nothing about the man, and Miranda deserves better than to have him turn on her, regardless of the spike of confusion and fear and even a little anger that is starting to well up inside him. This new world that he finds himself in is a foreign country, he realizes, and growing ever more foreign the more he learns of it, and abruptly he has to swallow hard, soup going down hot and uncomfortable and grounding him until he can ignore the part of him that wants to weep once again. It’s irrational - annoying, this thing that wants to claw its way up his throat and force its way out of his mouth ever since he left the hold and his captivity with it. It has nothing to do with James McGraw, Royal Navy Lieutenant and everything to do with the frightened, angry, grief-stricken man that had spent his first night in Bedlam lashing out against everyone and everything that came near him, that had never taken the time to cry before now, and now that he’s opened the floodgates it’s as if everything he’d kept dammed up is intent on rushing through. Not here though - not now, he won’t allow it. He turns a hard eye on Silver, who is watching him with something uncomfortably like admiration.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he says, and James’ lips thin, brows furrowing in a frown. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answers, and Silver raises an eyebrow.

“Alright,” he answers, “if that’s how you want it.” He rises, taking with him the plate that James has finished with. “I’ll leave you to it. You can find your way now?”

James nods, and Silver turns, heading away. He turns back a second later, looking at James again. 

"I forgot to ask," he says, "where did you serve on the ship, when you were in the Navy?"

James blinks.

"Gun deck," he answers, and Silver nods.

"Should have known," he answers. "I'll have a word with Billy." He places the plate near Randall, who grunts, and walks away, leaving James to sit, his stomach filled for the first time in too long, and his head abuzz with questions.

************************************

_ Nassau _ :

By the time he’s bathed, dressed, and wolfed down his breakfast, the sun is high in the sky, shining down on Nassau and illuminating both the war room and the irregularity that Thomas could not focus on the night before.

“We’re losing supplies,” he announces to Hennessey as he walks into the room, and watches the older man turn.

“You’re certain?” he demands. There was a time when he would have greeted Thomas - would have inquired what evidence Thomas had - but they have both since moved past both formalities and questioning one another when it comes to matters of Nassau’s safety. 

“Yes,” Thomas answers, and moves toward the table. He stirs papers for a moment until he comes across the inventories he’s been looking for. “Look,” he offers, and Hennessey takes the papers in question. “Last week,” he says, “my clerk in the warehouse in question was killed - blown away by a stray shot when Hume decided to try and frighten us, do you remember? Up until then, the figures on our flour supplies had been diminishing at the expected rate and the sugar numbers staying the same.”

“Yes,” Hennessey murmurs. 

“Look at this inventory.” Thomas says, handing the Admiral a different sheet of paper. “That’s from this week. I’ve replaced the clerk and requested a fresh inventory and apparently someone has replaced several barrels of flour with sugar - look, the numbers are up. Either someone has miscounted, or -”

“Or someone is siphoning away our flour stores, reasoning that no one will notice until too late if they’re replaced with sugar,” Hennessey says, voice flat and expression grim. “Damn it. That’s how the bastards have been supplying themselves.”

“And if we disrupt it -” Thomas starts, and then stops, a cold chill washing over him. 

“If we put a stop to it, they will have but one choice,” Hennessey says. “They will either move on the island, put an end to this by invasion, or they will leave.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any hope that they’ll choose the latter?” Thomas asks, and Hennessey shakes his head. 

“They will have received instructions from Lord Ashbourne,” he confirms. “Take back the island, or consider themselves dead men, barred from re-entry to England on pain of death.” 

Thomas can feel his hands clenching into fists, can feel the tightness in his chest. This is it, then. The tipping point. The last straw that will break the camel’s back and bring the current precarious balance down around his ears, unless…

“My father always said,” he says quietly, “that I had the damndest habit of coming to the least obvious conclusion imaginable when faced with a problem.” He’s staring at the map, now - at the neatly drawn lines, the crisp, new paper, at the carefully laid out line of ships blocking his harbor and the line beyond them that represents the supply line. With a sweep of his hand, he clears the second line away. “If they’re not being supplied from without, that means that all that stands between us and the open sea is the current blockade line. How many ships do we have available still?” 

“Not enough,” Hennessey answers dourly. “You cannot hope to break the blockade. Captain Hume’s warship -” 

“Is formidable, yes - too much for any of ours to take on even severally to say nothing of doing it alone, I know,” Thomas answers. “But what if that weren’t a consideration? What of the others?” 

“My lord -” Hennessey starts, and Thomas raises a hand. 

“Just - answer the question, please,” he requests, and Hennessey sighs. 

“If - and I say this only because you ask - if we could be rid of that warship, then there is a vague possibility that we would be able to get one or two of our ships past the blockade,” he answers. “We have Captain Hornigold on our side, and he commands the loyalty of many former pirates on this island. Provided that each one of them did exactly what they were told at exactly the right time -” He stops, looking over the map. “They have four brigs, two frigates, and the warship we have agreed not to allow into our calculations for the time being. Cut out the last, and I believe we might stand a chance, but I do not see -”

“They’re smuggling goods out to the ships,” Thomas says firmly. “That means that somewhere on this island is a plantation owner who must be supplying them with what they need in return for flour from our stores. The smugglers aren’t likely to be moved by threats, but the plantation owners are far less hardy. If we could lean on them to make demands of the smugglers without letting them know it was us doing the asking -”

“What in God’s name do you intend to ask these smugglers to do that will allow you to -?” Hennessey starts, and Thomas shakes his head.

“I don’t know that part yet. I will, though. Make contact with Miss Guthrie - quietly. Ask her to please make time in her schedule to meet with me this evening. Provided she’s not behind this little scheme, I believe she might be a great help to us.”

“And if she is?” 

Thomas takes a deep breath, and then allows the corner of his mouth to quirk upwards, feigns confidence he does not feel.

“I’ll deal with that when I come to it,” he answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! Next chapter we get into more pirate politics and find out what's going on with Miranda, at least in part!


End file.
